


Number Five is Alive

by uschickens



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Human!Castiel - Freeform, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Sam and Dean are bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uschickens/pseuds/uschickens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is damnation, redemption, and pancakes. Castiel wakes up human and maybe a little gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number Five is Alive

The whole thing ended in a firey ball of nothing, a huge wave of blankness that knocked them down before knocking them out. However, right _before_ everything whited out before they blacked out, right before Lilith hurled her last, endgame-bringing mojo at them, Sam threw himself in front of the final seal (which, by the way, was _nothing_ like the Bergman movie, Dean would like to state for the record).

So – naturally – Dean threw himself in front of Sam.

If they'd had time to speak in that last, endless moment, Sam probably would have yelled at Dean for sacrificing himself _again_ , for _still_ not understanding that it was not his _job_ to save Sam from himself, that it was time for the cycle of Winchesterian deaths (eat your heart out, Wagner) to end. Dean probably would have hollered back about pots and kettles and was Sam out of his fucking _mind_ , both in being so willing to believe the worst of himself _and_ in thinking that Dean would be fine, just _peachy_ without him, hadn't he learned his lesson time around? And then Sam would have yelled some more, and so on and so ond, and would have been the last three years (or their entire lives) all over again.

However, there was no yelling, no endless cycle, no nothing for two reasons: one, because it all happened in the space of a few heartbeats, and two, because it was all rendered moot when Castiel threw itself between Dean and Lilith.

Castiel, who had been ordered with the rest of the Host to stand aside, to wait. To step in after the humans failed. To stop Lucifer, not Lilith. To save the wider creation. To watch.

As everything went white, before it all went mercifully black, Dean's last thought was, "…hey. That's not watching."

  
***  


When they all came to, it was at least the next morning, maybe two days later, if Dean's bladder and skank-ass morning mouth were any indication. The first thing he did when he finally managed to crack his eyes open was try to find Sam. He almost managed to work himself into a panicked froth when Sam was not immediately in view, even though Dean's range of vision was somewhat hampered by his deep and profound reluctance to move any muscle that hurt whatsoever, which was pretty much all of them.

When he paused a moment to take stock, though, he felt a warm presence at his back and something that felt suspiciously like Sam's head pillowed on his shoulder. When he slung an elbow back, the warmth at his back snuffled in indignation, then settled back more comfortably. Dean grinned to himself. Yep. He'd know that level of unconscious indignation anywhere. Just as soon as he had the energy, he was totally gonna dump Sam on his ass, show him what happens when he used Dean as a pillow. Any minute.

While Dean waited a judicious moment before attempting movement, he took stock of what was left, post-Lilith. The altar was destroyed, and most of the church's roof and choir loft was gone. He and Sam were sheltered in the lee side of an overturned pew, and Bobby, Tabitha, and Pamela were scattered around, all looking worse for the wear but alive. There was no sign of Lilith, nor Ruby, and the sun was shining. Dean could almost hear the end credits music rolling.

Directly in front of him, a pile of rubble twitched slightly. He squinted, and he could barely make out a human figure beneath the chunks of what used to be the ceiling. He'd already done his head count, and everybody was accounted for. Both angels and demons had fled, and the only ones left were flesh and blood and nothing more (even Sammy), but they seemed to have picked up an extra.

He nudged Sam back to consciousness, reholstered the Colt, and the two of them approached the poor bastard underneath the chunks of wood and drywall, albeit not without a little caution. The hem of a familiar trench coat, scorched and bloodied, stuck out from underneath a heap of two-by-four. Dean glanced up at Sam and mouthed the word "accountant." Sam nodded, face grim. It was going to be a hell of an explanation, pun righteously intended.

On three, Dean and Sam shoved the worst of the rubble off of the accountant's body, who twitched again but didn't regain consciousness. Sam checked him for major injuries and, finding none, roll edthe guy onto his back. Dean shoved a bunch of shredded hymnals under the guy's head as a makeshift pillow, then went to help Sam wake up the rest of the troops.

Dean had one shoulder under Tabitha's arm helping her stand again when the guy came to, blinking and slowly rolling himself into a sitting position. Tabitha eased herself onto on the of the few upright pews, then shoved Dean in the guy's direction.

"Hey, buddy – how you feeling? Everything attached where it's supposed to be?" Dean crouched beside him, checking pupil size and pulse. "We're here to help. What's the last thing you remember?" Dean flipped through possible cover stories, each more unlikely than the last. How did one explain to a mild-mannered (he assumed), God-fearing tax accountant that his body had been hijacked for six months to avert the apocalypse? "Mercury poisoning" just wasn't gonna cut it.

The guy blinked, looking dazed. He stared at his hands, flexed his fingers, then stared up at Dean. "I remember you sacrificing yourself yet again, Dean Winchester. I remember-" the guy cut himself off, held up his hands as if he were unsure how they were attached, and shrugged awkwardly. "After that, I do not know."

Dean rocked back on his heels, a little stunned. "Castiel?" he asked, hoping he didn't already knowthe answer. Across the room, Sam whipped his head around to stare at them.

The guy – Castiel - _the guy_ looked up at Dean again. "Yes," he said in the barest whisper. "I am still here."

"But you're bleeding," Tabitha said, leaning over the back of the pew to stare. "How can you be bleeding?"

Castiel, or the guy, or whoever, reached up to touch the corner of his mouth, and his fingers came away bloody. "I do not understand. I-" he cut himself off again, this time to twist to the side and dry-heave like he'd just woken up from a Kappa Sig kegger.

"Hey, hey. Better to get it out. Don't hold back." Dean wasn't sure what to do with his hands.

Castiel shot him a look that, if it had come from anyone else, Dean would've called it dirty. "I do not eat. There is nothing to-" He became preoccupied with things other than Dean again.

Dean got to his feet, a little shaky still. Sam appeared at his elbow.

"Is that?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Is he?"

"Yeah."

"What about?"

"Nope."

"But where?"

"Dunno."

"But how?"

"Dunno."

"Do we?"

"Dunno."

Sam nodded. "Glad we're on the same page." He pitched his voice a little louder. "Hey, uh, Castiel? Are you done, uh-"

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "That's a no."

"So, uh, if you could just hang out here for a minute, that'd be great," Sam said. He dragged Dean over to Bobby by his shirtsleeve.

"So what now?" Dean said, dropping his voice. "What do we do? Are we sure it's him? It? Him? What about the tax accountant?"

Bobby snorted. "Hell if I know. Why're you asking me, boy? Wait for that poor fool to stop throwing up his lungs and ask him."

"It," Sam interjected.

"Him," Bobby said. "There ain't no angel left in that body, not in the shape he's in."

"Bobby's right," Pamela said. Her right eye was cracked and smokey, and her left leg was swollen and bloody, but she was in better shape than either Tabitha or Bobby and could walk unsupported. "Ain't nobody here but us chickens left. Not entirely sure what happened to angelface over there –" her mouth twisted on that "-but whatever he is, he's human now."

"I disobeyed." His voice was hoarse and thready, but Castiel's words were sure. "I disobeyed a direct order, and God has cut me down. I walk among you now."

"Take it easy there, Charlton Heston, nobody's doing any cutting," Dean said. "Where's your giant tree, or fire swamp, or whatever? Where's your grace? Shouldn't we be able to see where it left you?"

Castiel drew in on himself. "Gone. It is gone. I do not know where."

"Yeah, and when it left, it took his ability to use contractions with it," Pamela muttered.

Dean glared; Sam smirked, and Bobby plowed ahead. "If anyone were coming after us, I reckon they already would've. Still, best not to linger."

"I'll give an amen to that," Pamela said.

"Pam, you still need a ride?" Tabitha called over.

"Sooner the better, sweetcheeks. If we leave now, I'll even spring for IHOP." Pamela very deliberately turned her back on Castiel and went to join Tabitha.

Castiel flinched.

"What is it?" Dean asked. He couldn't help feeling vaguely protective; it was _his_ guardian angel - of sorts - that was laid low.

"It…hurts," he said. He pressed his hand just above his stomach. "I can feel her words here." He looked consternated (and still a little nauseated).

"Well, part of that is probably your body realizing it's out of angel mojo and it hasn't been fed in six months," Dean said.

"And part of it's probably that you're feeling kind of shitty about burning her eyes out," Sam finished for him.

"I heard that," Pamela called back over her shoulder, halfway out the door with Tabitha. "And tell him I hope he does. Welcome to humanity, bucko."

"I do not understand," Castiel said, still steadfastly refusing contractions.

"You and us all," Bobby said. "But Pamela's right. Everything will make more sense after pancakes."

  
***  


The former tax accountant was a little bit taller than Dean, but Dean's henley swam on him. Still, it was enough to get him out of the bloody, tattered suit long enough to get some food in him. They wedged him into the corner of a booth, still a little glassy-eyed, and Dean slid in next to him.

"No, really. I wanna know what happened to whatever-his-name-was. Even if your grace got repossessed, or whatever, how come you're still in there? I'd love a cup of coffee and the biggest stack of waffles you make, sweetheart," Dean said, not missing a beat as he turned to face the remarkably prompt waitress.

She nodded, then turned to Castiel. "And for you, honey? What sounds good to you?"

He got that kicked-in-the-chest look again. "I…do not know. I have never-"

Dean cut him off. "He'll have coffee and the All-American. Little bit of everything, hey?"

After she took Sam and Bobby's orders and left, they all turned back to Castiel, who was doing his best impression of having a panic attack. Dean opened his mouth, but Sam kicked him in the ankle and cut him off.

"Just breathe," he said, using his talking-to-victims voice. "In and out, nice and steady. You kind of have to now. When you're ready, tell us what's wrong."

Castiel gasped a little more, and Dean grabbed him by the back of the neck to keep him from faceplanting. The touch seemed to settle him, and Dean didn't let go right away. "I have never had cause to eat before," Castiel picked up right where he left off. "And now I must do so every day. And I must choose, each time. What sounds good? What do I want? I do not know _how_ to want."

"I'm pretty sure your tax accountant comes pre-equipped with some things," Dean said. "You look like a guy who likes home fries. And for the rest?" Dean shrugged. "It's pretty much human nature. If you're human all the way through like everything says you are, you'll pick it up."

"I am alone," Castiel said. "I believe Robert has gone home to God." He went back to staring at his hands.

Dean rolled his eyes. Sam made sympathetic noises. Bobby audibly wondered where their coffee was.

In the end, Castiel ordered an extra side of home fries and gave Sam his toast.

  
***  


It took Castiel almost six months to snap out of his initial shock. Bobby kicked the three of them out after a couple of months, and neither Sam nor Dean quite knew how to detach themselves from their ex-angelic backseat passenger. In the meantime, they hit up a Wal-Mart, got Castiel his own duffle, sleeping bag, and fake ID, and headed out to North Carolina and an allegedly haunted mine.

For the most part, Castiel stayed in the car or motel while Sam and Dean did their thing. He joined them for meals but little else. Once or twice a week, depending on how long they'd been in a town, they'd ask him to join them at a local bar or pool hall. No one ever suspected Castiel of lying, and he was perhaps the perfect straight man to their cons. He rarely spoke, and when asked to order in restaurants, he only ever said, "I'll have what he's having," and waved to Dean.

  
***  


The first sign that Castiel was adjusting to the mortal coil came late one afternoon, almost thirty-six hours after Sam and Dean had left the motel. When they stumbled up, bleary with exhaustion, Dean could have _sworn_ he heard the tv on in their room. But Castiel only ever read, first the Gideon bible, then the book of Mormon, then the books Sam hoarded, until Dean finally took pity on him and showed him the internet. When they walked in, Castiel was in the chair by the desk, peering intently at something on the Gutenberg Project as usual, but Dean still wondered. He would recognize Oprah's theme music anywhere.

  
***  


The second sign was a bit more unmistakable. Again, Sam and Dean came shuffling back to the motel, mostly in one piece, mostly exhausted. As Sam fumbled for the key, Dean leaned up against the doorframe and muttered, "We shoulda picked up takeout. I don't think I'm gonna make it back out tonight."

"Says the man staring thirty in the face," Sam said. "A little salt and burn too much for you there?"

"Says the man who got throttled by a _soap on a rope_ ," Dean retorted. "I'm amazed you can even show your face in public."

Sam was about to reply when he popped open the door and stopped dead. Castiel was in his normal place at the table, computer in front of him, but the entire dresser was covered in Chinese food boxes. "I took the liberty of ordering in," he said, not looking up. "The cleaning staff recommended the dumplings."

  
***  


Shortly after that came a morning when, as Dean went to switch off the tv before he and Sam left to go look into rumors of an uncegila come back to pollute Nebraskan waterways, Castiel reached out and stopped his hand on the remote. "You can leave it on," he said, not looking at Dean.

Dean glanced at Castiel, glanced at the tv, and grinned. "It's all yours. Just remember that the View and Sportscenter are both on at ten; you'll have to choose."

"Your advice is well-taken," Castiel said. Dean couldn't figure out if he was yanking his chain, and Sam barely made it out the door before succumbing to laughter.

  
***  


Three months after the apocalypse didn't happen, Castiel discovered Baywatch.

"I…had no idea the human form was capable of such things," he said, mesmerized.

Sam grabbed Dean's elbow before he could say anything and hissed in his ear, "You are _not_ allowed to show him porn." He considered. "Yet."

"Casa Erotica," Dean coughed.

Castiel ignored them both.

Pam Anderson ran in slow motion towards the sunset.

  
***  


A couple of weeks later, they sprang for a nicer motel, featuring not just air conditioning, not just functional plumbing, not just HBO, but Showtime as well. Sam and Dean opened the door to the room after killing a grindlow to find Castiel sitting very upright on the edge of the bed, tv off, and a faint blush staining his cheeks.

Dean headed straight for the tv. As he switched it back on, Castiel blurted, "There was a marathon on."

Dean stared at the tv. "Not helping your case, dude."

"I always liked Brian and Michael together," Sam said quietly.

"Oh, whatever," Dean snapped before Castiel could say anything. "Michael dug his own hole, and Justin was way hotter." He paused. "And now we will pretend this conversation never happened."

"I agree with Dean," Castiel said quietly. He didn't specify as to which statement he was agreeing.

  
***  


A week after that, Dean made a very important introduction to Castiel.

"You mean, they put the chili _on top_ of the fries?"

Dean nodded solemenly.

  
***  


One night, while staking out yet another creepy old house, Dean turned to Sam and said, "You ever get the feeling that we're living in that one montage from Austin Powers where he's discovering everything that's changed since the sixties?"

Sam stared at him. "No. I really can't say that I have."

  
***  


Six months after a small church outside of Lebanon, Kansas, was three-quarters destroyed, Sam and Dean woke to find Castiel sitting on the dresser, duffle and sleeping bag packed and at his feet. "I have to go now," he said as soon as he saw that they were both mostly awake. "There are things that I have to do, and I think I have to do them alone."

Before either Sam or Dean could muster coherent thought, Castiel interrupted himself. "No. These are not things I _have_ to do. These are things I want to do. It's not that I want to leave, but-"

Dean waved a hand at him blearily. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Go in peace."

Sam murmured, "It's a young man's classic journey."

Castiel nodded. "I knew you would understand. Perhaps we will meet again some day?"

"Undoubtedly," Sam said.

Castiel nodded once more. "Then I leave you to your sleep."

After the door closed behind him, Sam rolled on his side to look at Dean. He didn't even need to ask the question.

"There's a couple hundred in his jeans pocket, another three in his duffle, and I put the phone in his sleeping bag," Dean muttered.

"Mother hen," Sam said.

Dean rolled over and did his best to ignore him.

  
***  


Dean didn't really think about Castiel much after he was gone. Castiel-the-angel had kind of fucked over his life for a few months, and Castiel-the-man had been equal parts amusement and third wheel a few more months. He'd been trouble and a burden, and life was much simpler with him gone. With the back seat empty again, their lives were back to everyday, garden variety supernatural, no more forces of heaven and hell monkeying about with destinies and shit. Just the way Dean liked it.

Really, there was nothing left to think about.

Two months after Castiel left, Dean picked up three different guys in three different towns on three different nights. One had blue eyes and a perfect thousand-yard stare. One had a suit and a trench coat and a heartbreaking mouth. One was a seminary student.

Sam, having finally learned the better part of valor, didn't say anything.

No, Dean did not think about Castiel at all.

  
***  


It had been well over a year since the world didn't end when Sam jacked up his knee on a routine de-poltergeisting, so Dean went out without him. "Don't wait up, princess," he hollered over his shoulder. Sam, carefully propped in bed and surrounded by books, laptop, remote control, and snacks, waved distractedly after him.

"Don't get herpes," Sam yelled back.

Dean had just settled down at the bar with his third beer, fresh off a purely recreational round of pool (which he still won), when the guy he'd been eyeing all night slid up next to him. He was a little bit taller than Dean, had the right eyes - really, the resemblance was enough that even Dean had to acknowledge it - but his everything else was all wrong. Slightly too-tight t shirt and jeans, a leather cuff on his left wrist, a smile on his mouth, and a slink to his hips - Dean wasn't saying he didn't like what he saw, but it was enough that he had to ignore the slightest touch of disappointment.

"I was gonna offer to buy you a drink, but you beat me to the punch. Nice game back there," Not Quite Right Guy said, easing onto the barstool.

"Tell you what, you can get the next one, and, when the table's free again, if you beat me, _I'll_ buy the one after that," Dean said, hoping he'd judged things right.

Not Quite Right Guy curved his lips into a grin. "You're on."

One beer turned into three, and one game turned into one order of chili fries served to a booth in the back corner of the bar (Dean's prize for beating the guy handily), and handjobs and wet, open-mouthed kisses in the bathroom stall turned into Dean on his knees on a bed, panting and swearing, forehead pressed between the guy's shoulderblades, the guy's hotel room thick with the smells of smoke and sweat and sex.

Afterwards, the guy slept, but Dean didn't. Too wired, too strung out by an evening of almost-but-not-quite, too uncomfortable to sleep in a stranger's bed. The guy curled into him, using his chest as a pillow, one arm draped low and loose over Dean's hips. Dean carded his fingers idly through the guy's hair and looked away. His face lax in sleep, the resemblance was even stronger.

In the small hours of the morning, when Dean was finally just on the edge of sleep, he heard the guy say something, low and soft.

"What was worth it?" Dean asked, matching his tone.

The guy turned his face into Dean's chest even further, but Dean was listening now. "The fall was worth it. I do not have any regrets."

Fuck listening; Dean was very much awake. "What do you mean the fall?" He sat up, dumping the guy off his lap, but when Dean reached out to _make_ him look Dean in the eye, Castiel was already looking back.

"For you," he said, quiet at first but growing stronger. "I fell for you. I disobeyed a direct order because I could not bear - I did not _want_ \- to see you die. And I do not regret my choice."

Dean gaped. "You think - wait. You. You think that by saving me, by saving Sam, by saving _the world_ you're being punished?" In the six months Castiel had lived in his back pocket, they had never talked about this. Dean considered reconsidering his stance on Talking About Things if this is what not talking brought about. He might have lived out Austin Powers, but City of Angels was _not_ on his list.

Castiel pursed his lips in irritation, which reminded Dean of Castiel-the-angel, not Castiel-the-man. "I am here; I am flesh and blood; I am mortal and will die one day. I eat; I shit; I fuck. I am _human_. I am not what I once was. How is that not punishment?"

"Do you miss it?" Dean asked bluntly. "Do you miss being God's Little Solider? Do you miss watching instead of doing? Do you miss _no sex_?"

"No," Castiel said without hesitation. "I have realized that I don't."

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Then how are you being punished?"

" _I lost my grace_." Castiel bit out every word.

"Do humans have grace?" Dean asked.

"No, but-"

"Does grace do anything other than, I don't know, make you an angel?"

"No, but-"

"Am I somehow _less_ for not being graceful, or whatever?"

"No, but-"

"Dude, you're not punished; you're _human_." Dean shook his head. "And who's to say you disobeyed anyway?"

"My orders were clear. I chose not to follow them."

"Free will, hmmm. I though that was reserved for us monkeys," Dean said. "And who gave those orders? What if it was a set-up?"

Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. "I have heard, in my wanderings, that…perhaps…he works in mysterious ways?"

Dean grinned. "Soylent green is people, too." He pulled Castiel back down to the bed. "Now shut up and go back to sleep."

  
***  


They didn't.

  
***  


In what universe is sleeping with Dean Winchester a form of punishment? Honestly.

  
***

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> For 2008's [spn_j2_xmas](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_j2_xmas/) exchange for [backinblack](http://backinblack.livejournal.com/).


End file.
